


Collar

by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)



Series: Sterek A-Z Challenge [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Parasites, disturbing imagery, stiles always gets the short end of the stick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-10-17 13:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasterella/pseuds/isthatbloodonhisshirt
Summary: “Stiles,” Deaton’s soft voice said, much closer than he’d been anticipating. It made him jump. “I’m going to put something on you, all right?”“Can you scratch my nose first? Seriously, you guys are torturing me, here. This is legitimate torture. Do you know how long you left me here alone like this with nothing to do? I can’t be left alone with nothing to do, my brain goes crazy, and I start thinking dangerous things, like setting my jeep on fire for the insurance to buy a new car—which, by the way, I wouldneverdo because I love my jeep—and also what it would be like to take a shot off Derek’s extremely sculpted abdomen.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis

Stiles thought they were being ridiculous. And unreasonable. And overprotective. Because, really, he was _Stiles_ , and the crazy stuff spouting out of their mouths made zero sense in the grand scheme of things.

Again. He was _Stiles_. He was the human, with the research, and the running, and the baseball bat. He contributed to the team by being generally knowledgeable while driving people crazy and saving their lives when they did something stupid.

But this? This was ridiculous.

“Guys, I told you, I’m _not_  dangerous,” he insisted, turning his head towards the sound of their voices. He had to rely on their voices because he was blindfolded and handcuffed to a chair in the back of Deaton’s animal clinic.

He’d been there for almost twenty minutes, which was driving him crazy because, first off, ADD. Second, he didn’t like not being able to see, it freaked him out. Third, his nose was itchy, and nobody would listen to him when he told them he needed it scratched before he went insane.

It was _still_  itchy, but they were too busy having their little pow-wow out of earshot, which was frustrating as all hell because whatever plan they were coming up with was—on top of being unnecessary—probably not as good as any plan _he_  could come up with.

Nothing against Scott, but Stiles was really the brains of the operation. Scott was the Alpha. Derek was the muscle. Deaton was the magic user. Jesus, he was getting off-track. The point was: unnecessary planning going on somewhere out of earshot.

“Guys,” he called loudly, twisting as much as he could in his seat. “Seriously! Dying over here! I’m not kidding, I need someone to scratch my nose!”

It took another ten minutes of whining and fidgeting in the chair before footsteps sounded, alerting him of their approach. He straightened, letting out an explosive sigh of relief, since they were either going to scratch his nose, or let him free so he could do it himself.

“Stiles,” Deaton’s soft voice said, much closer than he’d been anticipating. It made him jump. “I’m going to put something on you, all right?”

“Can you scratch my nose first? Seriously, you guys are torturing me, here. This is legitimate torture. Do you know how long you left me here alone like this with nothing to do? I can’t be left alone with nothing to do, my brain goes crazy, and I start thinking dangerous things, like setting my jeep on fire for the insurance to buy a new car—which, by the way, I would _never_  do because I love my jeep—and also what it would be like to take a shot off Derek’s extremely sculpted abdomen.”

He heard a snort, from a little further off, suggesting said extremely sculpted abdomen was closeby. He didn’t let that bother him, he’d never had a brain-mouth filter, and it wasn’t the first time he’d blurted out something that embarrassing.

Also, Derek was a Werewolf. He’d probably smelled Stiles turned on around him multiple times. Couldn’t hide anything from them. Boners were easier to hide than weird smells Werewolves could apparently pick up from the next continent.

“Stiles,” Deaton said again, voice soft. “I know you think this is unnecessary, but—”

“It is. It _is_  unnecessary.” He let out a short laugh, holding his hands out at his sides as much as he could while they were handcuffed to the chair, palms out. “Guys, I am _fine_. Whatever you think that thing did to me, it’s over. I’m good. I feel perfectly normal.”

Scott murmured something, too low for him to hear. Derek rumbled a response back. Silence for a moment other than the rustling of their clothing. He could still feel Deaton close to him, hovering right in front of him, ready to put _whatever_  on him. After a few moments, he felt more than heard Deaton shift backwards.

Stiles jumped when a hand fell onto his shoulder, holding him tightly. It _had_  to be Derek, because the hand was way too huge to belong to Scott. Scott had tiny, soft little baby hands. Derek had big, rough, calloused, very _adult_  hands.

And now Stiles was getting distracted thinking about other places those big hands could go aside from his shoulder.

“You’re a man who can’t deny the truth when presented with it,” Deaton said from well across the room. “If we prove this to you, will you stop arguing and listen?”

“Sure.” Stiles shrugged. “But you’re wrong.”

A moment of silence, then Stiles felt the blindfold get pulled off on the opposite side of Derek, suggesting it was Scott. He winced when light stabbed at his retinas, blinking rapidly and trying to get used to the sudden change. Once his vision cleared, he looked up to insist everything was fine when his eyes caught sight of Deaton.

Something rose up within him. Something dark and angry, and Stiles wrenched himself out of his chair, eyes locked on Deaton, an inhuman snarl escaping him. He wanted to bite him. Eat him. Kill him. He wanted to tear him to pieces and bathe in his blood. He wanted to maim him, to watch him scream, and relish in the sound of tearing flesh! He wanted—

A hand covered his eyes and like flipping a switch, the feeling left him. He was on his feet, one hand free from the chair—he still had the cuff on so he’d probably broken the chain—and the other dragging the chair behind him. He could feel Scott’s hands against his chest, his panting breaths loud in the silence of the room. Derek’s heart was slamming against his back, since the older Werewolf had moved behind him to wrap one arm around his chest, the other moving up to cover his eyes.

He had literally just broken out of handcuffs and managed to get halfway across the room while an Alpha Werewolf and an extremely buff Beta had attempted to stop him, and _barely_  managed to.

“Holy shit…”

“I didn’t realize being infected with a parasite also gave him superstrength,” Derek muttered from behind him, hand almost painful over his eyes. It was like he was worried Stiles would magically be able to see through his skin. If he couldn’t see through the blindfold, he wouldn’t be able to see through Derek’s hand.

“Holy _shit_!” Stiles was about to have a panic attack. A full blown panic attack. Right here and now. “Holy _shit_! My dad!”

“He’s fine,” Scott insisted, hands still pressed against his chest, as if to make sure Stiles didn’t suddenly try and get past him again. “We got there before anything bad happened.”

“Get it out of me!” Stiles insisted, voice tight and panic rising.

“Stiles, you need to calm down,” Deaton said, still across the room.

“ _You_  calm down with a murderous parasite living inside your body!” He insisted shrilly. “Not cool! Why is it whenever something evil has to go _in_  something, it chooses me?! Wasn’t the Nogitsune bad enough?! Someone else should’ve gotten the parasite, this isn’t fair at all!”

“Stiles, the more you panic, the faster it’ll kill you,” Deaton said sharply.

Stiles’ mouth snapped shut, but his heart continued to thud painfully against his chest, much faster than was normal.

He was going to die. I mean, usually, he was always going to die, but this time felt a lot more real. This time felt worse than that time he and Derek were in the pool with the Kanima circling. This was bad. Oh so bad. He might _actually_  die this time!

“We need to get the blindfold back on,” Derek muttered.

Stiles clenched his eyes shut, struggling to stay calm. He heard a door close elsewhere and assumed Deaton had exited the room because Derek’s hand left his skin. Still, Stiles didn’t open his eyes. He knew the Werewolves were fine, but he didn’t want to risk it, so he just stood there while Scott got the blindfold back over his eyes.

Once it was in place, he kept his eyes closed, though not quite as tightly. They helped him back into his chair, undoing the handcuffs since they were virtually useless now, and Deaton re-entered the room.

Stiles felt numb. The panic was beginning to subside when faced with the realization he was literally going to die. That was why they hadn’t been speaking in front of him. They didn’t know how to save him. He was going to get eaten alive from the inside by this parasite.

“Stiles,” Deaton said, voice soft. “I’m going to put this on you now.”

He nodded numbly, feeling something brush against his neck. A pressure rested against his throat, encircling his neck, Deaton pulling a strap through a buckle at the back. When he pulled away, Stiles reached up, fingers touching at the leather band.

“Did you just put me in a dog collar?”

“It was the best I could do on short notice.” Deaton at least sounded apologetic about it. “It’s a protective spell to stop the parasite from escaping. We’ll do everything we can to get it out of you.”

“But if you can’t, you don’t want it scuttling off once it’s done with me to infect someone else, gotcha.” Stiles propped his voice up when he said it, flashing Deaton a smile. Or, he _hoped_  he was, considering he couldn’t see him.

“We’ll get it out before that happens,” Derek said sharply from his left.

“In the meantime, he needs to stay away from humans. If he catches the glimpse of anyone considered to be human, the desire to kill will rise once more.”

“Guess that includes Lydia,” Scott said from his right. “She wanted to see him.”

“I believe it would also include Kira,” Deaton added. “Malia would be all right in his presence, but anyone classed as human, even with an ability like mine, will spark the parasite’s bloodlust.”

“I can’t go home,” Stiles blurted urgently. “Dad’s there! Dad’s human! I can’t be near my dad!”

“Calm down,” Derek snapped, not sounding calm _at all_. A hand was on his back, rubbing smooth, slow circles. He could only assume Scott was trying to keep him from panicking.

“Nobody’s making you go home,” his friend assured him. “Don’t worry, your dad will be fine.”

“I won’t be able to work comfortably with him here.” Deaton sounded like he felt guilty saying those words, but it was clear he wanted to get to work finding a way to save him. Which Stiles appreciated, so he wasn’t going to complain about being kicked out.

“He can’t go to mine,” Scott advised them. “My mom’s home right now.”

“He can come to the loft,” Derek said almost immediately afterwards. “It’s just me there, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Stiles mostly tuned them out, trying to keep his panic at bay. He needed to get himself under control, needed to focus. Easier said than done without his Adderall, but his life was on the line so he was fairly certain he’d manage to pay attention long enough to look through some books.

When he tuned back in, he heard Scott and Deaton speaking by the door about Argent’s Beastiary, his friend confirming he would go and get it and bring it back so they could get to work.

That would’ve been all fine and dandy if Stiles didn’t realize that Scott was across the room… and there was still a hand rubbing circles on his back.

But that... No... Really?

... No...

Derek was rubbing his back?

Maybe there were more parasites than they thought. Maybe Derek had one that made him not hate people, because that was the only explanation for why he was rubbing his back like he was trying to keep him calm.

“You should head out now,” Deaton said, voice snapping Stiles out of his shocked stupor long enough to realize he was speaking to Derek. “I would recommend avoiding the main roads, just in case.”

The hand left Stiles’ back, making him miss the warmth of it immediately, and he stood unsteadily. Derek put one hand on his elbow and helped lead him towards the exit, Scott promising he would be right back with the Beastiary and Deaton assuring him that he would be fine.

He found it hard to listen to them because Derek sucked at the whole leading-the-blind thing since he lead him right into a doorframe. Cursing and stumbling a little, he managed to make his way outside with Derek’s “help” and into the passenger side of the Camaro. His door slammed and he swore less than a second passed before Derek was beside him, shutting his own door.

Was Stiles losing perception of time, or had he moved around the car extremely quickly?

The car started and Derek tore out of the veterinary clinic’s lot, heading back for his loft. Stiles leaned his head against the window, keeping his eyes closed in case the blindfold slid down. He tried to determine where they were based on memory alone, trying to calculate the distance between each block, and what intersections they were stopping at. He felt like he was doing fairly well for a little bit until Derek turned down a street and Stiles got completely lost.

He figured he was taking him the long way to ensure there was minimal risk of human interaction. Going the long way seemed to make him antsy though, because Stiles noticed he had a bit of a lead foot, speeding through the town at a rate much higher than the speed limit.

“Aren’t you going a little fast?” he asked, turning his head to look at him despite the fact that he couldn’t _see_  him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Derek grunted.

“Uh, yes it does.” Stiles had barely gotten the words out when he heard the chirp of a siren behind them and felt a cold sweat break out across his skin. “Oh no.”

Derek cursed and Stiles felt the car speed up just a fraction, as if he were contemplating speeding away, but he seemed to think better of it and slowed the car down, easing it over to the side of the road. Stiles was glad, because the last thing he needed was to be involved in a police chase that would have people asking questions about the blindfold and ultimately remove it. Sure, he could keep his eyes shut, but it was possible he’d end up being forced to open them at some point.

The car stopped and Stiles heard a door slam, footsteps crunching against the asphalt. Derek was suddenly in his personal space, pulling open the glove box and grabbing what Stiles assumed was his insurance.

A moment of silence, and then he heard Parrish speak.

“A little fast there, Derek. You know you’re in a residential zone, right? Hey Stiles.”

He lifted one hand in a wave, face turned the other way in hopes he wouldn’t notice the blindfold. A moot point, since it was tied around his head, but a guy could hope. He just didn’t want his dad to worry.

Probably _also_  a moot point, considering Stiles had just tried to kill him less than an hour ago.

Or maybe over an hour ago? It was hard to keep track of time, he’d been unconscious and handcuffed to a chair for a while.

“Why is he blindfolded?” Parrish asked in what Stiles assumed he thought was a whisper.

“Sorry about the speeding, but if you’re gonna give me a ticket, get it over with. I need to get him home _now_.”

Stiles smacked his forehead, because if there was _anything_  Derek could say that would raise quite a few alarms, it was that.

“Why? What’s going on?” Parrish’s voice had immediately gone into serious-mode, which Stiles didn’t need.

“We don’t have time to explain, just give me my ticket or let me leave.”

“Derek—”

“Stiles is going to die!” Derek shouted.

Stiles jumped at the volume of it, turning to give Derek a startled look that was probably lost behind the blindfold. He could hear the creak of leather that suggested Derek’s hands were clenching the steering wheel much too tight.

There was a beat of silence, then Parrish told him to slow down through the Warehouse District because another officer was on patrol there. Then he walked away, but Stiles heard him speaking a moment before he entered his car, suggesting he’d just called someone.

He really hoped it wasn’t his dad. Maybe he’d called Scott to get some information on what was going on.

The car began to move once more, Derek speeding again. Stiles knew when they were close to the Warehouse District because he slowed considerably, almost going the speed limit. It didn’t take long to get to Derek’s loft once they were there, and the moment the car stopped, the engine was turned off and the Werewolf was out of the car.

A literal second later, Derek was opening his door and helping him out of the car. They walked into the warehouse Derek used for a home and he stumbled his way up the stairs to the loft. The door was wrenched open, and then shut.

He reached up for the blindfold, hesitating before removing it. He gave himself a second to compose himself before opening his eyes and glancing at Derek.

After a tense moment, it became clear he _wasn’t_  going to attack him and Stiles let out a relieved sigh, raking a shaky hand through his hair and wandering to Derek’s small table by the window so he could use his laptop.

Sitting down, he pulled it open and typed in Derek’s password, unconcerned with the way the Werewolf was suddenly behind him, watching over his shoulder.

He went into Google and looked up the parasite: Exitium Nex Parasite.

Not as many hits as he would’ve liked, most of them referring to Latin translation, but he started digging, trying to find something useful. It was do that or panic, and he wasn’t allowed to panic, so he just busied himself with what he was known for. Namely, research.

Derek disappeared from behind him for a moment, but returned carrying a large, time-worn book. He set it down on the table across from Stiles, took a seat, and opened it. The room was silent save for the occasional typing and flipping of pages, the two of them focussing on what they were doing.

Stiles reached up and tugged uncomfortably at the collar around his neck. He had to wonder what kind of dog it was for, considering how big it was. Or maybe he just had a small neck? He hadn’t known humans could fit into dog collars. Or maybe it wasn’t a dog collar and Deaton hadn’t said anything because he didn’t want to make things awkward.

The silence stretched for a long time, Stiles feeling his anxiety beginning to rise the more time passed. He couldn’t figure out if his stomach hurt because he was hungry, or because he was dying. Maybe the pounding ache behind his eyes was actually the parasite making its way through his brain. It was entirely possible the muscle pain in his left leg was due to being eaten from the inside.

A sudden burst of fear hit him after another site of no luck. What would happen to his dad if he died? The last time Stiles had seen him, he’d been attacking him, trying to kill him. What if that was the last memory he had of Stiles?

And worse, who was going to keep him in line with Stiles gone? His father already didn’t eat right when Stiles wasn’t looking, and his job made him drink more than he was comfortable with. If Stiles wasn’t there to watch his diet and hide the liquor, his father was going to find his way to an early grave!

He would be lonely, too. So lonely. Stiles may have been young, but he remembered how hard it had been for his dad to pick up and continue on after his mother had died. He didn’t know if he would manage with Stiles gone, too. He’d have to talk to Scott, make sure Scott and Melissa went by frequently to keep him company.

Parrish could watch his diet, they were together a lot at work anyway, and he knew the deputy liked his dad. He’d keep him in line, and hopefully say things like, “What would Stiles have wanted?” to ensure his father actually ate healthy.

It was more than just his dad, though. Scott would be affected, too. They’d known each other forever, and while he had the pack now, Stiles was pretty sure him dying would hit him hard. He didn’t want Scott to be sad. He didn’t want anyone to be sad.

He didn’t want to die.

Stiles jumped when Derek swept his arms across the table, throwing the book he’d been reading almost clear across the room while jerking to his feet. The chair he was in had toppled over backwards from the force and Derek began to pace, dragging his hands through his hair and sporting his ever-present scowl.

He’d never seen the Werewolf look so angry before.

“Are you okay?” he asked hesitantly.

“No, I’m not!” Derek snarled, rounding on him. “All I can smell is your anxiety and worry and fear while you _sit_  there working away like you’re not terrified! I can’t even keep my own shit together enough to help you because I’m so worried it’s eating away at me!”

Stiles winced, and Derek blanched, realizing his poor choice of word.

He turned back to the computer, typing in another search option and beginning to click through some sites.

“Stiles.”

When he looked back at Derek, it made his heart clench, because he looked so _broken_. He looked like _he_  was the one facing death, face twisted into an expression of agony and hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“You’re always saving me,” he insisted in a quiet voice, almost forcing the words out. “Just this once, I need to be the one to save you. I _have_  to. I can’t just let you die.”

Stiles stared at him, wondering if the parasite had tapped into a part of his brain that was making him hallucinate. “What?”

“I’ve lost too many people!” Derek insisted, voice rising almost in a panic. “I can’t lose any more of my pack! I can’t!”

Warmth spread through his chest despite the fear still running rampant through his veins. Stiles had always known he was considered pack; even before Scott had become the Alpha, it was fairly obvious that he was the token human in their ragtag little group of supernatural beings. But Derek had never actually _said_  it. He’d implied it, and hinted at it, and maybe alluded to it.

He’d never specifically _said_  Stiles was pack before, and to hear it now… kind of floored him.

It made him realize he was legitimately screwed. Derek would only admit those words aloud if one of them was dying, and Stiles was pretty sure Derek wasn’t hiding some incurable disease he couldn’t pronounce.

“I’m really gonna die, aren’t I?” he asked quietly.

“No!” Derek looked miserable when the word tore itself from his throat, stalking over to Stiles. He crouched so they were almost at eye level and grabbed the back of Stiles’ neck in one hand, squeezing it and pulling his head forward so he could press their foreheads together. “We’ll fix this. You’re gonna be okay. You _will_.”

Stiles hated being a cliche. He hated it when he watched movies or read books where something dramatic happened and two people got close enough for one of them to just lean forward and kiss the other.

In this moment, he understood the reason that was always depicted in media. Being this close to Derek, feeling every exhale against his face, seeing the flecks of brown in his green eyes—Stiles pulled a cliche.

He leaned forward, closing the distance quickly before he could change his mind or Derek could pull away, and pressed his lips to the other man’s.

It was a brief, chaste kiss, but at least when he died he could go knowing he’d had this. At least he’d had this, if nothing else.

The hand behind his neck was still there, stopping him from pulling away completely so that all he could do was put enough space between them so their lips were no longer touching. He kept his gaze averted, not wanting to look at Derek. He waited for the hand to leave his neck, a part of him hoping it wouldn’t.

It did, making his chest ache at the realization that even when he was dying, he couldn’t get what he wanted.

But then he realized the hand wasn’t leaving, it was just shifting, sliding forward so Derek’s hand cupped his cheek, thumb gently brushing across the top of his cheekbone. He didn’t dare look at him, keeping his gaze elsewhere, and then he felt lips against his once more.

This... This was _not_  a cliche. Because in movies, when the second person realized what the first had done, they immediately dove in and promptly attempted to devour each other’s faces.

Derek didn’t do that. He kissed him as if wanting to savour the feel of Stiles’ lips against his own. Parting his lips, he took Stiles’ lower one between them, trapping it for the briefest of moments.

The kiss was slow. It was sensual. It was everything Stiles wasn’t and hadn’t ever believed Derek to be. He was legitimately taking his time, as if trying to map every part of Stiles’ lips in his brain, burning the memory of this into his mind.

Stiles was more than okay with that, because this... it was better than he’d ever imagined kissing Derek would be. He’d always imagined a rough clacking of teeth, or a hard press of lips, or demanding tongue. While he wanted those things— _God_  did he ever want all of those things—this was somehow almost better.

This was like Derek telling him without saying a word that Stiles _mattered_  to him. Stiles was important, he was pack.

Derek _liked_  him, and that was just _crazy_.

When he pulled away after effectively short-circuiting Stiles’ brain, he let out a small sigh, hand still against his cheek, and pressed their foreheads together again, closing his eyes.

“That... I... wow...” Stiles couldn’t figure out what to say.

“If I’d known that was how to shut you up, I’d have done it years ago,” Derek said softly.

Stiles would’ve been offended if the way Derek’s thumb moved across his cheekbone wasn’t thoroughly distracting. Besides, it was obvious he was just kidding.

“I wish you had,” he said quietly. “I’ve wanted to do that for... I don’t even know.”

“A while,” Derek said quietly. “I know. Me too.”

“You knew?”

“Werewolf.”

Stiles had assumed, but never really put much thought into it. Given Derek’s previous relationships had literally all gone to shit—Kate Argent being batshit crazy, Jennifer Blake being a psychotic killer, and while Braeden wasn’t terrible per se, she was still a mercenary who, oh yeah, killed people—he hadn’t ever really put much thought into the possibility of Derek knowing he liked him. He’d assumed he did, but hadn’t really dwelled on it too much.

“Wait, you said ‘me too,’ as in, you’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

Derek said nothing.

“Why didn’t you?” he asked quietly.

The thumb stilled against his cheekbone and Derek sighed. Stiles could only guess what he was about to say: he was too old for him, he wasn’t good enough for him, he was a criminal, he was a killer, he was a Werewolf, etcetera, etcetera.

He didn’t get the words out because a stabbing pain shot up his throat and he jerked away from Derek, gagging and almost falling out of his chair.

“Stiles!”

Derek grabbed at him while he doubled over, clutching his stomach and dry-heaving, pain shooting through him like fire. He coughed roughly, feeling ready to be sick, and blood spattered across the floor, hitting one of Derek’s shoes.

The Werewolf cursed and pulled out his phone, one hand clutching Stiles’ arm hard enough to bruise. He didn’t hear what Derek was saying, too focussed on the pain forcing itself through him. He wondered if kissing Derek might not have been a mistake. The parasite travelled orally, and what if he’d just infected Derek somehow? Shit, he was so fucking stupid, how could he have done that knowing how it infected others? His mouth was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place!

Then again, that might explain the pain. It was likely trying to get out and infect another host, though it wasn’t done with this one, so that seemed unlikely.

“What do you mean it can multiply?!” Derek was shouting into the phone.

Well, that explained a few things. Evidently there were now _two_  parasites inside him, and because he’d kissed Derek, one of them was looking to get out and infect _him_. Stiles was suddenly eternally grateful for the collar around his neck. It was stupid of him to have kissed Derek while knowing what was inside him.

The only reason he’d even gotten infected himself was trying to save someone’s life. Apparently he was going to hate mouth-to-mouth for the rest of his—very short, apparently—life. Not even two hours later, and he was trying to kill his father.

He still didn’t even know what the purpose of the parasite’s attacks _was_. All he knew was it enjoyed eating human flesh, which it was doing inside of him right now, at double the speed now that there were two of them. He figured maybe forcing humans to devour other humans gave them more sustenance.

How had the last guy not killed anyone? Had the parasite just gone through him so quickly it had waited for a new host and latched onto Stiles once he’d tried to be a good Samaritan? What if there were other parasites out there, the things having multiplied and infected any number of people?

Stiles tightened his arms around his own middle, the pain almost unbearable.

He didn’t want to die. Not now. Not ever, really, but definitely not now. Preferably not now?

Fuck, just—not _now_!

“Derek,” he grit out, blood on his lips and his vision swimming. “Derek, tell my dad—”

“Shut up, Stiles!” Derek snapped, sounding furious.

How fitting that those would be the last words he ever heard. Derek telling him to shut up. It was so familiar and comforting that he couldn’t help but feel relieved.

Something in his back snapped and agony coursed through him. He fell out of the chair, screaming and arching his back, fingernails clawing at the floor. Derek cursed and shouted something into his phone before he was beside Stiles, gripping his shoulders.

He was saying something, but Stiles couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own screaming. Over the agony in his body short-circuiting his brain, insisting that he make it stop, make it stop, _make it stop_!

The door across the loft opened, the pain in his back racing up his spine like fire under his skin.

Someone was shouting to hold him down and he felt hands on him. On his shoulders, on his chest, his legs. His screaming intensified when he felt something _digging_  into his spine, and he wished right then that he could just die, he just wanted it to end, please God, let it end!

He almost choked when something was being poured into his mouth, barely hearing Deaton ordering him to swallow, to get it down. It was that or choke on it. Choking was currently what was happening but he somehow managed to force the liquid down, a creeping warmth slowly sliding down his throat.

The second his airways were open once more, he was screaming, trying to kick out his legs and rolling onto his side, clutching desperately at whoever was crouching on his left. His back jerked abruptly, the pain flaring for a moment, and then he felt his stomach roll.

He was gonna be sick. He was gonna be sick. _He was gonna be sick!_

Shoving hard at the person he had been clinging to a second before, he rolled onto his stomach, getting onto his hands and knees and digging blunt nails into the hard floor of Derek’s loft. He felt hands at his neck and a moment later the collar was gone.

Stiles threw up, his body wracking with the force of his heaves, emptying everything in his stomach, along with some blood and something else.

He didn’t want to think about what it felt like coming up his throat. He didn’t want to remember what it looked like when it splattered against the sick and blood on Derek’s floor. He just heaved it up, clenching his eyes shut, and feeling ready to vomit again just from disgust.

After barely five seconds of reprieve, he started dry-heaving again and felt something else shifting inside him. A cup was at his mouth, ordering him to drink and he struggled to swallow when it was tipped back, liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth while he tried to get some of it into his body.

Shoving the cup away from him when he felt ready to be sick once more, he dry-heaved for a few seconds before the second parasite came up, bringing blood up with it. Once it was past his lips and dying on the cold floor, Deaton was there holding something to his lips once more.

He wanted to tell him it was over, it was done. There were two and they were both currently dying on the floor, but Deaton had uncapped a bottle now and was forcing him to drink it. The other concoction had been almost tasteless, but this was positively _foul_. It smelled disgusting, and it tasted disgusting, and he just wanted to throw up again.

Trying to push Deaton’s hand away, the druid’s other one came up to grab the back of Stiles’ head, forcing him to keep drinking.

“Drink it quickly. Your insides are damaged, if we don’t hurry, you’re going to die.”

Hard to argue with that, except he couldn’t breathe, and his lungs were burning, and his gorge was rising and God he was _never_  giving someone mouth-to-mouth again. Even if it was Scott. Even if it was _Derek_!

Deaton didn’t let up until the bottle he held was empty. When he finally pulled it away, Stiles let out a loud gasp, inhaling oxygen greedily before coughing, shifting to sit on his butt and covering his mouth with one arm, looking across the loft to avoid looking at the vomit and blood and _things_  that had been inside him.

Arms wrapped around him from behind, squeezing him so tightly that there was no way to mistake who it was. He could feel him shaking, lips pressed against the crown of his head and whispering quiet mantras of thanks.

Coughing roughly a few more times, Stiles cleared his throat, shifting his hand so he could pat at one of the arms wrapped around him.

“I’m okay, dad. I’m okay.”

“You could’ve died. Jesus, Stiles, you could’ve _died_!”

He didn’t have anything to say to that so he said nothing, coughing a bit more and feeling another set of arms trying to wrap around him. He didn’t need to look to know it was Scott.

Letting them both hug him, he looked at Deaton. He was sitting on the floor beside him, looking both relieved and exhausted. He had two different bottles beside him, and Stiles figured one had contained the liquid that killed the parasites, and the other contained whatever he’d just given him to heal his insides.

It was a good thing, too, because Stiles was pretty sure those things had eaten through most of his intestines so he hoped that potion had regenerative properties.

“Where was that potion when I got punched in the face by Argents?” Stiles managed to force out.

Deaton actually managed a smile. “It loses its effect when it’s used too often so I only use it for emergencies. I felt as though this qualified.”

Stiles just let out a small laugh and patted his dad’s arm. “Come on, help me up.”

“You shouldn’t stand yet,” his dad insisted, sounding terrified.

“I need to stand. I can’t sit here.”

He was released, his dad and Scott helping him up. Deaton didn’t try to stop him, so he was probably okay to do so. He and Derek were in the process of carefully scooping the two parasites up in weird jars with symbols carved into the sides and bottom. When they were both in, Deaton slapped a lid overtop that also had some symbols on it.

“You should rest,” Deaton said, watching Stiles. “There’s no telling the damage you’ve incurred, and what I gave you will need time to fix everything fully.”

Stiles looked towards the door. It was so far. He didn’t think he could make it all the way there and to the car and home and to his room.

“He can sleep here.”

Everyone turned to Derek, who was washing his hands across the large open space in the kitchen.

“Put him in the bed.”

His dad didn’t argue, beginning to help him the few steps from the table to the bed. Stiles all but fell onto it, olfactory system invaded by scents of Derek. He rolled onto his side, feeling better and better as time passed. He figured it was temporary while the potion or whatever worked through his system, but it would likely wear off eventually.

He could hear everyone helping clean up, Deaton leaving to dispose of the parasites in a safe manner. Parrish—whom Stiles hadn’t even known was there—went with him to ensure nothing went wrong. Scott and Derek cleaned up the vomit and blood on the floor while his father paced by the bed.

After about half an hour, when it was clear Stiles wasn’t about to die anymore, his father passed out on the couch and Scott sat at the table texting. Probably Lydia, maybe Liam. Or even Deaton, who knew?

When the mattress dipped beside him, he turned his head and looked over at Derek, feeling sluggish and half-asleep despite not having closed his eyes once since lying down.

“We’re gonna finish that conversation,” he insisted, watching Derek shif slightly.

“I know we are. I’m glad you’ll be alive enough to manage that.” He hesitated, then reached out one hand and ran it through Stiles’ hair, dragging his nails against his scalp. Stiles let out an involuntary noise of appreciation, closing his eyes.

“We’re having that conversation,” he said again.

“When you’re more conscious.”

Stiles hummed, feeling sleep finally tugging at the corners of his mind. He was sure he wouldn’t sleep soundly after what he’d just been through, but at least he knew Derek would be there when he woke up.

At least he knew Derek cared.

And they were going to have a _conversation_.

That was worth waking up for.

**END.**


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